


Through the Noble Prowess of Himself

by ren_makoto



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Violence, the Final Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4983838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ren_makoto/pseuds/ren_makoto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I suppose," he said, "that there are worse things to be than loyal."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Noble Prowess of Himself

**Author's Note:**

> That show could have ended a million ways. Here is one.

Camelot was safe.

It was the world that burned. And if they failed today, Camelot would fall soon after.

The heart of that great city, the force that had ruled it, lay dying. They were far from home now. Yet all the land was Albion; everywhere the sun touched had Camelot as its capital.

And Arthur was its King, the architect of this great empire. Today, the land mourned.

Arthur had fallen in battle, speared straight through the heart. The Knights of Camelot still struggled against Mordred's unholy army, but they were disheartened. Arthur had given them hope. Arthur had been the better world they fought for. Fighting in his name didn't feel as grand. Fighting in his name felt much like defeat.

No longer young, no longer in need of protection, Mordred stood upon a hill. His armor was wicked and twisted, but indestructible. He looked down at the ashes and blood, the piles of armor hiding twisted bodies. His face was cold and unfeeling. At his side, Morgana was still young, still lovely. Her power was all but gone, wasted away to keep her beautiful and desirable. Yet Mordred loved her still, fought for her, believed only in her. And if she wanted Arthur's head on her mantle, Mordred had pledged to bring it to her, to take Albion no matter the cost. His spear was still painted red with noble blood.

They had murdered the King.

Leon and Gwaine had dragged Arthur off the battlefield, but had not tarried. They were constantly moving on battlefield, powerful warriors silhouetted by moonlight, fighting against a horde of creatures they could not hope to defeat.

Near the tree line, Arthur's lifeblood seeped into the ground.

The mists collapsed on themselves, formed up into a shape, swirled into solidity. Merlin emerged from the forest and crouched at the side of the King. He was ancient and pale, his face obscured by a silver beard, but his eyes glowed constantly. They were twin points of golden light on the blue, midnight battlefield.

"Ah, Merlin," Arthur said, and reached for Merlin's hand. "I wondered if I would ever see you again. It is a shame you awoke just in time to see me perish. You have the worst timing, wizard."

"You should be grateful I came at all," Merlin cackled. He looked out over the bloody field for a moment, seemed to focus on Morgana's beauty. "So this is your moment, is it?" he muttered, almost to himself. He looked down once more at the fading King. "Sire, did you ever think," he wheezed, "that it would end like this?"

Arthur squeezed his hand. "No," he said. "No, Merlin. When we were young, I imagined…" For a moment, it was as if his eyes danced with visions of the world he had meant to create. "I imagined such…" There was a weak smile on his bloodstained lips and then, they spoke no more forever.

"Hah," Merlin whispered and swallowed heavily, as if swallowing away grief. "Imagined what, sire? I never accused you of having imagination."

He released Arthur's hand and gently laid it upon the grass. Then he stared up at the heavens. "I suppose," he said, "that there are worse things to be than loyal."

Then he placed a hand over Arthur's armor, right over the bright, punctured and bleeding dragon on his chest; right where his heart would be. Merlin's golden eyes glowed more brightly than they ever had. More brightly than they ever would again. Merlin slumped.

At his feet, Arthur coughed. Then he groaned.

"Oh, damn you," he cursed. As he stood, he was glowing, a white, pure light. He illuminated the world around him with his brilliance. The wrinkles on his brow melted away. His eyes were as bright and clear as ever. His back was straight, his body whole. He was a young man again, a King.

Across the battlefield, all turned and saw. They shielded their eyes from the white light. The enemies of the King hissed and fell away, but the Knights of Camelot felt their hearts warm, their spirits lift. They could fight once again. Not in Arthur's name, but for Arthur. With Arthur. They flew at their enemies more fiercely, refused to let them call retreat.

The tide of the battle had turned. And at the edge of it all, Merlin was fading.

Now his eyes were white and milky, bleached out and nearly sightless. He struggled to stay upright and was leaning on Arthur a moment later. "Did you think I'd let you die with work left unfinished?" he whispered, his voice a fading echo.

Arthur smiled. "Honestly? Yes. It was glorious there. I was at peace."

"Well, you're a lazy good-for-nothing," Merlin cackled and poked at Arthur with his skeletal finger.

"I hate you," Arthur said.

"Yes, yes. I promise I'll let you die after we win."

Arthur rolled his eyes. Then his expression was somber again. "Will we? Will we win, Merlin?"

"Even I can't say," Merlin answered.

"I suppose I should thank you," Arthur said with a sniff.

Merlin mumbled something in reply and leaned more into Arthur. He weighed absolutely nothing. It was as if the bigger part of him had been magic all along and now that it was gone, he was a feather, a puff of milkweed in the wind.

He'd had so much power and he'd poured it all into Arthur. Had he been a less powerful wizard, Merlin might have lived a thousand years. As it was, he would die on this battlefield with Arthur. His own magic would bring about his destruction.

In some ways, it was comforting to Arthur: he would not die alone. His oldest—his greatest—friend would be beside him.

Arthur did not say goodbye.

"For Camelot!" he screamed and charged at Mordred's army. Excalibur was a glinting herald of victory as King Arthur moved forward, raced forever into history.

He wiped at his wet eyes, but didn't turn around as Merlin crumpled to the ground behind him.


End file.
